


Incapacitate His Heartache

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Basically all the times Illya struggles while Gaby keeps him grounded, Blood, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Roughness, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, answered prompts, gallya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9724856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: Gaby's arms fold over his shoulders and she knocks his flat-cap off of his head. He mutters something in his native tongue, swats over his head at her but Gaby doesn’t concede. Instead she does what she’s been waiting eight months to do. She leans down and presses her lips to the back of his neck just below the short golden hairs there. Illya freezes, his fingers go numb, his brain is reduced to static. The chess game is forgotten – he gives Gaby a silent checkmate.A Collection of Answered Number Prompts.





	1. A Person's Weight

It doesn’t matter how many missions she flubs, how many times she miscalculates and falls under – Illya is there. She falls, he catches. What’s between them has nothing to do with the guts of a car or a wall meant to tear the city in two. Tonight is no different as they settle into a hotel with little to nothing to their names, newlyweds starting over – seeking investments in a company meant to trade goods and services with the shadier parts of East Berlin.

Her belly is full of cheap liquor, mouth sticky with too much sugar and a taste that burns on the way down. She finishes the bottle. Wearily sets it down next to his chess set and makes a show of taking the seat next to him, thigh pressing into his own to tear his attention away from the game and look at her. He is too skilled to be distracted. So she gives up, goes for another bottle, plays with the dial on the radio, hums off-key to a song she doesn’t know all to stumble back and lean on his side. Her arms fold over his shoulders and she knocks his flat-cap off of his head. He mutters something in his native tongue, swats over his head at her but Gaby doesn’t concede. Instead she does what she’s been waiting eight months to do. She leans down and presses her lips to the back of his neck just below the short golden hairs there. Illya freezes, his fingers go numb, his brain is reduced to static. The chess game is forgotten – he gives Gaby a silent checkmate. 

The soft kiss still burns on his neck when she slumps down and buries her face in his neck, exhaling low and soft, snoring quietly. The liquor has done her in and he says a private prayer – a quiet thank you to the stars because he has no contingency plans to escape her. He doesn’t want to escape her. He wants to curl up in her wire-like arms and find himself at home despite what his handlers say. However for eight long months since Rome, he has done everything in his power to keep away. Tonight is more difficult. When he lifts her for bed, she clings to him. When he moves to drop her down, she pulls on him. When she manages to coax him into the mattress, he can only lay still and flat on his back, unable to move. He blows out a nervous breath, tries not to tap his fingers and fails when she crawls over his side, grabbing the thick blankets in her path. With slow, sleepy moves, she rolls onto his chest, presses her hips over his and buries herself in the warmth of him, dragging the blankets over the both of them. 

“Goodnight, Illya,” She says it in German, a soft burble of a tone as sleep steals her away, dragging her into a dreamy oblivion. Illya stiffens then relaxes, hands folding around her. He holds the weight of her onto him, anchors himself down with her. He prays their mission in East Berlin will be quick – then hopes come morning, she will still be there with him, where he can take her burdens and hold them over his own.


	2. Darting Shadows

He doesn’t sleep well – and when he does, it’s lighter than anything Gaby has ever witnessed. Napoleon jokes – calls him a machine but she doesn’t like to think of him like that. Even now as they lie in bed, her cold legs tangling with his warm ones, her chest warm with alcohol consumption, he still doesn’t sleep well. At every move she makes, he is awake. Awake and alert, hand twitching as if making the decision to go for his gun. He scans the room faster than she can yawn, seeking danger, searching for anything that will end whatever it is that seems to be blooming between them. 

Gaby moves her foot over his, taps her toe to the flat expanse of his foot and hums softly, “Why are you so paranoid?” She asks, voice thick with the want to sleep. They’re in Paris, she should be sleeping fine, safe and sound within the French borders with the mission complete. Insomnia plagues Gaby, she asks him if he suffers as well, Illya does not answer her. 

In fact he doesn’t say anything about it because she already knows the answer. He is paranoid. The KGB have trained him look over his shoulder and then the next person’s shoulder as well. She swears he never stops looking for danger, never stops looking for the shadows that catch the corners of his true blue eyes and it leads to his core breakdowns. The anger, the outbursts – Gaby chalks it up to paranoia, lack of sleep, lack of love…

She rolls over in the expensive sheets and presses to his side. He is up, eyes open and peering at her carefully, “What are you doing?” His accent pierces the silence in the room. Gaby taps his foot with hers once more and stretches an arm out, anchoring him down onto the mattress.

“Helping you sleep.”

“I am not the one with insomnia.” He chides her softly and moves a hand down as if to push her away but Gaby clings to his nightshirt, curls her hands into the flannel of his button up and buries herself there in the scent of gunpowder and aftershave. 

“No, but you need more help than me.”


	3. Fatal Recklessness

The man in the backseat uncovers her secret, threatens to ruin the mission by calling his boss. When she dumps the clutch in fifth gear and pulls the brake, the car loses it’s purchase on the tight curve of the well worn road on the Ukrainian countryside. The henchman in the backseat shouts at her, holding his gun – losing it in the recklessness of her driving.

“If you’re not getting out, then I am!” She shouts at the hired gun in her mother language.

Dust and debris kicks up behind the tires, the smell of burning rubber and engine grease hits her senses and the car careens off the edge of the road just as she scrambles out of the driver’s seat, rolling onto the road just as the sound of Illya’s motorcycle invades her senses. The stolen car goes off the road, crashes down the side of the mountain and dips into the sea. 

The motorcycle comes to a complete stop next to her, heavy boot stepping down in front of her vision as she rolls over onto her side. Illya puts down the kickstand and gently heaves himself over to pick her up. He wraps an arm around her waist and stands tall with her pressed into his chest, looking over the edge of the cliff-side. Relief floods her system. She feels boneless and surreal, adrenaline slowly easing away from her nerves, leaving her exhausted and tender-footed. 

“He scared me,” She breathes softly into his cable knit sweater, taking in the smell of race fuel, “He knew who we were, knew U.N.C.L.E. sent us.”

Illya’s hand falls on the back of her neck, soft and reassuring, calloused fingers massaging over her shoulder, “Is okay, we resume mission. Get you new car, Cowboy can get you a matching one.” 

“Illya, I killed him,” She breathes softly, “I am -”

“Enough, we go.” Illya hushes her with a soft squeeze of his hand and guides her towards the bike, “Sit on back. Hold on tight, Chop-Shop.”


	4. Scent of Blood

She makes her first kill a messy one. It involves Illya’s knife, the one he gave her just minutes before they went into the warehouse, giving her something for protection. They left her to find the paperwork, gunfire going off in the distance. Napoleon and Illya both were supposed to handle the henchmen but one of them got through, one of them grabbed her so she swung. 

It’s a bloodbath. It stains her black clothes, seeps through the fabric and chills her to the bone despite it being hot to the touch. She shouts and sags to the floor under the weight of her attacker. He’s no longer breathing, simply gurgling over her as the life drains from him. Gaby sucks in a sharp breath and scream claws its way out of her throat as the man goes heavy – silent. 

She kicks him off, scrambles away and leaves the paperwork behind, forgotten. She makes it down the steps, trembling under the weight of the blood soaking into her tactical gear. Illya finds her on the last step, blood on her face, hair loose from her well-tied bun. 

“I did it.” She mouths the words and the first sob comes in the middle of gunfire. Napoleon and Illya sweep the rest of the warehouse – he takes his knife out of the dead man while Napoleon picks up the paperwork. They make it back to the hotel but no amount of scrubbing frees her. She runs the water until it turns cold and stays a few minutes more. Illya sits outside of the bathroom, legs outstretched, fingers twirling his knife slowly, it’s clean now. He feels guilty when she starts dry-heaving behind the bathroom door. 

An hour ticks by and finally she emerges. She smells like the soap from the hotel and a mix of his aftershave to cover up the metallic scent of blood that lingers behind.

“I can still feel him,” She whispers into the darkness of the hotel room. The only light is behind her, shining from the bathroom and spilling into the room.

“Gaby,” He moves to his feet, “These things happen.” 

“No!” She is sharp, points a finger at him, “These things don’t happen in garages, they don’t happen under cars,” Her voice is a trembling whisper, “These things don’t happen on the stage while the prima-ballerina dances her solo.” 

“They happen on missions,” Illya huffs out the word trying to keep his voice level – steady as she unravels in the darkness. 

“I can still smell it.” 

“It will fade.” He steps towards her, knife still in his hand. She catches the silver in the light and shrinks back.

“I don’t want that near me. I don’t want you near me right now…”


	5. Failed Mission

His hips move slow and deliberate, each thrust is harder than the last, and his hands leave behind bruises. Gaby doesn’t cry out from pain, she lets him have his frustration. She lets him lose himself in the feel of her. Her hands clasp over his cheeks and she pulls him over her, drags the tip of her nose along the bridge of his while her thumbs dip against the corners of his mouth. He hasn’t shaved in days. The rough shadow along his jawline digs into her palms as she pulls him down, desperate for a kiss. He slashes his mouth over hers, bruises her lips. 

Illya drags his mouth lower, leaving her lips in search of softer -- untouched skin. He scrapes his teeth along the curve of her jaw and down the slope of her neck. Gaby’s hands slide up from his cheeks to his hair where she winds her fingers down to the root and pulls at the golden locks, wrapping her legs tighter around. 

He’s angry. They’ve lost their mark on the mission -- and he blames himself. She can feel it in the way he moves, how he acts like the world has fallen upon his shoulders and his alone. Russia pulls tight on his leash and Gaby yanks him back to her each time. She locks her legs around him, arches her hips and grinds into him. Her lungs are empty, breathless as his name leaves her again. Illya’s hands slide up from their place on her hips and land on her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her slight breasts. She lets out a shuddering breath and he leans down, mouth on her nipple, bruising, rough -- he drags a free hand down and presses his thumb over her clit. Despite his anger, he lets her come first. He takes care of her _first_ and _always_. Gaby moans and thrashes out, her hips canting into his. 

He thrusts a final time, roars out his release and frustration, buries his face in the valley of her breasts and nearly sobs as she strokes his hair. Soft words leave her lips, warning him that he is better than his temper, better than the weight he bares as they prepare to report their first failed mission of their careers.


	6. Whispered Low and Slow

They call and he leaves her in the middle of the night with a hand on her hip and a squeeze of her thigh in his palm. She felt the warm brush of Illya’s lips on the back of her neck, a quiet promise to return even if he wasn’t allowed to make such devotions in the dead of night. Gaby had rolled over, lips seeking his own but he simply brushed a soft kiss to her cheek and coaxed her back to sleep, warm hand on her cheek, calloused thumb stroking under her eye. He leaves her without a kiss and it haunts him as he lands in Moscow, greeted with old comrades waiting to break his fingers, nose and teeth for a chance at U.N.C.L.E. intelligence. 

_What are the Americans planning?_

_Do the British have ties to nuclear weaponry?_

_That girl has made your bones soft?_

Illya is interrogated for hours.

His bones heal slowly, his left trigger finger is permanently crooked, even as it taps on the armrest of the commercial flight that will take him to only person he’s been dreaming of for months. She’s the first thing he thinks of while pouring his coffee, adding extra sweetener to the cup for hopes the taste will remind him of their pre-dawn kisses. 

He returns from Russia two months later, red-eyed and militant as always. His posture impeccable, golden hair slicked back without a strand out of place. She meets him at the terminal, fingers trembling, nails jagged and chewed on pressing into her palms. He doesn’t see her at first, she is dwarfed by the crowd, but she sees him. He stands so tall, so straight and startling along the crowd. He pulls the air right from her lungs without even trying. Gaby weaves in and out of the milling people. The tips of her fingers catch Illya’s and she watches his throat move in a heavy swallow, before he turns down to look at her. Illya instantly softens, all his sharp edges are slowly dulled down as he stoops down to be closer. The tip of his nose brushes her crown and he inhales the delicious scent of wildflowers and mechanic’s soap, grease and well worn leather. 

“How did you know?” He asks, not caring as the crowd parts around them. He wraps an arm around the back of her neck, drags his palm low along the back of her shoulders, “How did you know I was to be back today?” 

“U.N.C.L.E. intelligence,” she breathes into his coat, ignoring the red patch of his patriotic uniform. He wears that dark navy suit like a second skin and it makes the contents of her stomach sour. Gaby closes her eyes, dark lashes touching the tops of her cheeks as she ignores the pin just above her eye level, his silver star for aiding the invasion of her home. 

“Of course.” He whispers the words into her hair and then slowly they pull apart. The airport is no place for their reunion. He has news to give her, Oleg’s health is failing -- they may never ask for him back. The man’s lungs are black and heavy, full of tar and cancer. Illya’s never felt more elated. He keeps his joys to himself, giving Oleg his condolences before boarding the first possible flight home -- _home_ to a small mechanic who grates his nerves and warms his bed. 

She drives him down the winding roads of London, checking for tails in the rearview mirror while his hand wraps around her wrist as she shifts gear. He strokes the lines of her veins caught between the delicate bones of her wrists and silently swallows his fears of the KGB following him, of them breaking her delicate bones for information on how she’s crawled under his skin and made him a soft and hollow man. 

When they get to her flat, he falls asleep for the first time weeks, burying his head in her neck before she crawls out from the weight of him and begins tearing off the uniform that reminds her: he’s never really going to be hers. He belongs to the red sickle and hammer pinned to his chest, he belongs to a country that doesn't love him in the ways she does. When she's satisfied with his state of disrobing, she crawls back to his side. Illya's arm falls on her hips and Gaby winds herself around him like a vine desperate to cling, cold feet and fingers playing with the exposed pieces of his skin, counting new scars and begging for a few hours of peace. Illya sleeps the whole night through, only to wake with his lips pressed to the line of her collarbone. 

"I love you," He breathes into her skin, the words hot against her. Gaby shifts and another snore pulls from her. 

**Author's Note:**

> These are all answered from my Tumblr here recently @colleenvving! All mistakes are my own. Thank you for reading and thank you for everyone who takes the time to comment.


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